The Final Stroke Of A Blade
by Samatoan
Summary: "The tabloids called him the most notorious killer of the decade, the body count was long past the double digits, each cadaver expertly carved into, bled out and killed. That was his signature, the poetry, the intricate artistic carvings that marked each of his victims as his own." Sam Winchester is an artist, his knife is his brush and each victim was his canvas (CollegeAU)
1. Chapter 1

Then:

Deontology, it's an approach focusing on the rightness or wrongness of actions themselves, the motives, and not the goodness or badness of the consequences of those actions. Though many would agree that this viewpoint that this ethical belief wouldn't encourage what we perceive as the correct ethical behaviour in the human race. People murder because they can, it gives them a twisted sense of pleasure. They don't do it to follow a set of moral beliefs. If people were raised with the beliefs of deontology drilled into them from when they are infants wouldn't that better society. People wouldn't be as deceitful, as cunning and more prone to lying. Deontology is acting because it is your duty to do so, not because you want to, but because you must. People would tell the truth because that is their duty, people would help others because that is their duty. It is every person's duty to show kindness and compassion whether you want to or not. It is every single person's duty to never harm another living person without reason.

If everyone was acting in that particular way because it was their duty to do so that would be the downfall to individualism. It wouldn't do anything to increase happiness, or better the system we have now. It would just turn the entire human race into robots. Everyone would be living their lives without reason; feeding off of duty, running on nothing but silent exchanges and forgotten love.

Utilitarianism states that the action is right if it produces the greatest happiness for the greatest number of people. Happiness for Utilitarianism is pleasure and the absence of pain. This may sound more free, a better and ideal set of morals to live by. It would be but if someone were to go and murder someone because it causes a sense of profound happiness would this be morally right? If the amount of happiness that is produced is more than displeasure then yes it would be morally ok. Although if governments were run based on utilitarianism of public opinion instead of a group of politicians who cheated their way into power through manipulation and lies, would that have any more benefits to society. We do live in a democratic society where the people vote and elect leaders, we are run by these politicians. Though we are able to choose our leaders we can't have say in how the country is run, we don't get to have a say in the choices that are made. We don't get the choice of happiness, although this may sound the easiest option to live in a society where utilitarianism is a social norm, this would enable too much free will. People could decide that not going to school would bring about more happiness; that murdering that one person would give a lot of profound joy.

There is no real way to measure happiness so who's to say that murder was or wasn't ok because you don't know how much happiness or misery it causes. How far do you measure, is it just the one person, or the entire family. It is an ethical dilemma that can't be measured, it's something that society can't control and in the end you will still have those few that will govern over the rest; the people that would judge happiness and misery.

You can't say exactly what your moral beliefs are. No one wakes up one day and decides that they are one hundred percent true to deontology or they will live their lives based on utilitarianism. Each one of these beliefs is flawed. We can't live by one or the other, if we did our society would be less free. Each person would follow one set of belief and that would rule. Our current system would crash and burn.

Ethically the best way for our society to truly work is individualism. Everyone is born with instinct. Through education it is supressed, we are constantly fed society's ideas of the correct social norm. What society believes to be the right thing, it may not be the right thing, but it's what we are taught. From birth to the end of life everyone is taught what is right and what is left. We are all taught the same thing, like it was all written down in a book. What is right and what is wrong. If you don't follow society's ordeal ethic behaviours you are a psychopath, a danger to society. Maybe that's how murders are born, how 'psychopaths' and 'insanity' is formed.

Ethics aren't recognised as free will any more, people like to believe it's their own idea of what's right and what's wrong, but each individual person all steer towards the same ideologies. We are told what is right and what we are told is law, even though you don't see it, it is there. Individuals who don't agree with society, who want to be different, who try to reach out, follow their instincts and find something new only to be cut down by society and moulded into something else. Turning a shining star into a dull orb, barely glowing with what is life, only living out the rest of its days following what society says to do.

_– Sam Winchester, extract from final report_

*.*.*.*

Now:

The tabloids called him the most notorious killer of the decade, the body count was long past the double digits, each cadaver expertly carved into, bled out and killed. That was his signature, the poetry, the intricate artistic carvings that marked each of his victims as his own. Each corpse had its own carving, an individual art work. The sliced skin formed intricate patterns that wove into each other, creating images, scenes of beauty and delicacy.

It was an honourable way to die, in the hands of an artist where his victims were like a canvas and his knife was his paint brush. Each stroke was masterful, precise. It showed the power the artist had over each life he stole, the power he had. The world was at his fingertips, nothing could stop him now. He thought he was a god and he set out to prove that the world was his canvas and he was the artist.

The first kill barely made the paper, just another nobody found in a ditch but it wasn't the death of a poor soul that interested the papers it was the body. The slashes that covered each corpse seeming random were frantically made; it wasn't until after the body was removed and cleaned the pattern emerged. A crude engraving of a flower was carved into the body, each slash, each cut lining up to produce a rose. It was sick in a way, laying the body to rest with a flower, like in a grave. No one knew if it was guilt or mockery. All they knew was another corpse will pile on top of this one, and another, and another. Nothing was going to stop him, not until the artist was satisfied with his work. But when are they ever.

They never were able to catch him, for years no one knew his face or name, or if it was just one man; he was a ghost in the public's eye. Just an artist, painting his pictures, letting the public know what he could do, and that he was never going to stop. Each kill, each new painting brought more and more attention, it because the biggest attraction on the news, the cover on every newspaper. _The artist strikes again._ It was the headliner that captivated people, _the most notorious killer of the decade makes another kill,_ and there was nothing people wanted more. In everyone's own dark and twisted way they awaited the next kill, society found something they liked and they were going to hold onto it as long as they could until they had to return to their own mundane lives.

That's how it worked for a year, the body count was halfway to triple digits and the public kept screaming for more. Everyone wanted to know the face behind the artworks, who was crafting each masterpiece. It was a year before the media was able to show the pubic those warm brown eyes and dimpled smile, the innocence behind each of the killings.

The next day, every single newspaper, every single news station, radio was saying what everyone was waiting to hear. _Sam Winchester, the name behind the artist. _

**TBC~**

**Reviews would be amazing. Sorry for the boring ethical debate, don't worry. I will be delving straight into story soon.**


	2. Chapter 2

Moral objectivists believe that there is an objective and independent moral standard that applies to all people, in all places and at all times. Moral norms are absolute from a moral objectivist's point of view. If a moral objectivist upholds the norm that lying is wrong, he or she would agree to the statement that lying is always wrong, regardless of the context. However, if a moral objectivist upholds the norm that lying is not morally wrong, he or she would agree to the statement that lying is never morally wrong, regardless of the context.

– _Sam Winchester, extract from final report_

*.*.*.*

Then:

Boring; absolutely positively boring. Those were the only words that came to mind as he watched people pour through the open gates, fresh faces flooding the courtyard as he searched for someone remotely familiar he could talk to. It was his second year of pouring over books and avoiding any social gatherings, it was his second year of leaving his life of hunting behind.

Sam knew he was right to leave; it wasn't too hard to push the faces of what was left of his family out of his mind. Not that they really were a family, that's why it was so easy. So easy to pack his bags and never even think twice before leaving, even if it meant never coming back. Sam knew he lost everything that night, all he had was a duffle full of clothes and books and his ticket out of that life; a scholarship to Stanford that got him in on a full ride. Hunting was never what Sam wanted, it was never his ambition; he could deny the thrill and rush that he craved from it but it was never what he wanted.

Waking up every morning in a rundown motel with what looked like urine and stains on the carpet and faintly smelled like a homeless man puked in the corner was not something anyone would wish for. The near death experiences, the short life spans, the paranoia and the death that came with the lifestyle was just crap. He was dragged into this bullshit life and he was sure as hell escaping it.

Saving people, hunting things, the family business… in Sam's mind it was utter bull. He knew the his dad wasn't in for it because he was _saving people_ but because his alcohol fogged brain was hell bent on revenge for killing the thing that murdered his mother.

"Sam! Hey!" The shill shout of a female's voice snapped Sam out of his thoughts, glancing up he saw Jess's lithe body bouncing up and down with too much energy and excitement for Sam's liking.

With a small flick of his wrist he waved back and started to make his way over, his grin spreading from ear to ear. "Hey Jess, how was your break?"

"It was alright, you know how family can get" Jess chuckles softly and gently bumped her fist into Sam's shoulder, "what about you? Did you stay on campus again?" Sam could hear the pity in her voice no matter how much she tries to mask it with sincerity and a wide smile.

"Yeah, just the usual" Sam's voice trailed off as he glanced down at the ground and back at Jess. "Have you seen anyone else around? I think I saw Brady and Luis skulking around somewhere"

"They went off before to go see if they can go find Becky and Zach, they said they'd arrive together. Well I'm not waiting for them, want to go back to the dorms and check out our new roomies?" Sam couldn't help but feel relieved that Jess had brushed Sam's attempt to change subject aside and just went alone, the conversation of 'I-couldn't-stay-with-my-family-because-they-told-me-not-to-come-back' filled with the 'if's' and 'why's' wasn't one he particularly wanted to have. Sam had practiced his story days before he first arrived to Stanford, it wasn't unusual for him to be secretive about his past, and it was expected of him and so were all the other unusual habits he brought along with him.

Sam couldn't deny he missed hunting, he knew deep down he longed for the long nights of staking out to find a vampire nest or driving silver through a werewolves heart. The urge coiled around in the back of his mind like a snake, it was getting restless, anticipating the right moment to strike, the right moment to devour its meal. "Sam?"

Blinking twice, Sam could feel a soft blush rise to his cheek as he snapped out of his thoughts, "oh right, yeah. Let's go" He muttered back, distractedly, too focused on the raging current that was his mind.

Sam flinched as he felt Jess's slim fingers wrap around his forearm, he swore under his breath lightly, cursing himself for being so on edge over reminiscing over the past. He was in the middle of college grounds; there were no werewolves, wendigo's or poltergeists lurking within the walls, not a single hunt or hunter to be worried about. No matter how long Sam would spend on campus, how much he familiarised himself it everything he had to remind himself this wasn't another hunt; it was college, and _Jess. _No matter how many times he told himself this something nagged at the back of him mind, _wrong-unsafe-hunt-kill._ The thoughts lurked deep within his urges, the need to hunt, to kill whatever he deemed unfit to live. It was the family business, it was his childhood his upbringing and hunting wasn't something you could walk away from. It was part of Sam, no matter how much he tried to deny it, a curved blade fit more comfortably in his hand than a pen.

He could feel the soft flesh under his fingertip, the gentle thrum of her heartbeat pulsing with life. The more he pressed the louder it got, more frantic, and fighting for life, struggling in his grasp. He could feel her nails grazing his flesh, drawing blood whenever they could find any bare skin. He could feel the struggles becoming weaker and more futile, then it stopped. Her heartbeat fluttered one last time then silence, he dug his fingers into her throat one last time before letting his arms fall limply to his side.

"Sam? You ok? You've been more distracted than usual. Is it… is it your family? Did something happen?" the words were slick with worry and oozed with sympathy, there was no sugar coating it.

Sam bit back his tongue and just shook his head, "'M just tired, late night" with an overly bright smile; his dimples attacking her at full force, Sam wrapped his arm around Jess's shoulder and started walking towards the dorms. "Now I _need _all the holiday gossip, what'd I miss?"

Jess's eyes lit up deviously, forgetting anything to do with what had been mentioned less than a minute ago, trust gossip to distract a girl. "Well, you know Josh…."

Sam continued to smile and nod throughout the mountain of words, 'ohmygoshes' and who slept with who but the small space at the back of his mind was thinking back to before, remembering the unsavoury thoughts that circled his mind, and for the first time Sam was terrified that it wasn't a just a joke, the temptation was there and it was only a matter of time before he succumbed.

*.*.*.*

A couple of weeks had passed, classes want by smoothly and finding time for his job became more and more difficult as the workload had started to pile up. Sam left home with all of his possessions, a backpack full of clothes, few weapons his father had given to him when he turned seventeen and a wad of cash he nicked from Dean and John before he left. That was all he came in with on the first day. Money was tight even when he got in on a full ride; most of Sam's holidays were spent working double shifts at three different places getting payed the minimum wage because that's all he was, cheap labour; a pawn in the daily struggle that was society. He managed to scrape by, putting most of his money towards accommodation, food and college books. He wore the same clothes and everyone knew, they took one look and they knew; society had truly pissed on Sam Winchester. It was why Sam needed to do well, stay at the top,

Another all-nighter spent studying; Sam couldn't afford to let his marks slip; he came in on a full ride and without his family school was all he had left. The only thing in his life he had left that he could control. The library had become his sanctuary; the ethereal beauty and tranquillity of being surrounded by books always was something he craved. He would spend hours hunched over a desk revising notes and studying. On the odd occasion he would grab a book and spread out on one of the chairs, immersing himself in literature. It was only until Zach found him, drifting in and out of consciousness over a highlighter abused text book, was he dragged by the ear from the library.

"C'mon Sam, did you forget, _again¸_ that we were supposed to meet the others for coffee today. Becky is gonna be so pissed that you forgot"

Sam didn't bother keeping track to where he was going, just as long as it was somewhere where he could have a litre of caffeine pumped into his bloodstream to restore him to be a functioning human being; or something that resembled one.

It wasn't until Sam had finally started to settle when four pairs of clearly unimpressed eyes locked onto him and Sam could feel himself bracing for what was to come.

"Sam you gotta stop trying to kill yourself with work. Seriously, how long have you been in there? You left after dinner last night" Michaels voice snapped him out of the fantasy world that was playing in his head. "You're not going to be kicked out if you don't get top marks or straight A's"

"Mike 'm fine. Just lost track of time, that's all." Sam squirmed slightly in his seat, not taking his eyes off of the bottom of the coffee mug. He wasn't one to deny he had been neglecting himself but he wasn't the priority, neither was food nor wasting time socialising. He needed to stay on top, prove he wasn't useless.

"Just like the time you 'accidentally' passed out during out study group last week" Becky's voice was shrill, demanding. Sam couldn't help feel on edge, the ever demanding rage that lurked in the back of his mind became restless, each work felt like a slap to the face making white hot rage curl around the pit of his stomach.

It was like a chain reaction of events, it had happened so fast that Sam couldn't really distinguish what had happened but it was over in a flash. Time seemed to have slow down to a lazy drawl as Sam through himself over the table, his arms reaching for Becky's neck. The weight and force of his entire body hitting the table sent scalding hot coffee everywhere, the burning liquid splashed over Zach and Michael. Sam watched the two bolt upright, rubbing their reddening flesh in attempt to shake off the burning liquid. Cold and cruel satisfaction was all Sam really felt, the pure everlasting joy of watching the light fade from someone's eyes. His grip tightened on Becky's throat as she tried to claw at his face, searching and gasping for air but with no avail. A small spout of continuous laughter erupted from his mouth, his crazed grin spreading from ear to ear as he lifted then rammed Becky's head again the wall.

Again…

And again…

And again…

"Sam! Are you even listening?" Becky's voice yanked Sam back into reality, only to be greeted by concerned stares and uneasy glances. Sam could feel the smile that had creeped onto his mouth whist deep in thought.

"Maybe you should go see a shrink or something" Michael's words cut right through Sam, unwanted feeling's coursed through him. Betrayal? Hurt? _Why would he say I need a shrink? I'm not crazy. I'm fine… I'm sane. _The look Sam shot him was nothing less than murderous, making Michael back down slightly, afraid of the wild accusations his friend might throw at him. "Not that you're crazy or anything but you keep zoning out and you never leave that library. Going a day without staying up until all hours of the night isn't going to kill you Sam, plus…"

"Just cut the crap and say yes Sam, you do law; majority rules, you're going to let us help you" as per usual Becky was the one to interrupt. Her overly shrill whine dug its way into Sam's brain; pushing and pressing against what little patience he had left; testing him, waiting for him to burst.

"Ok ok yes fine" Sam held his arms in surrender hoping that agreeing would shut them up, one session wouldn't hurt. As long as it wasn't cutting into his study time. "Just one session, I still don't see what the problem is"

Sam's eyes flittered over to Zach's silent form, not a word had been uttered once the topic had been changed. Not a single judgment or personal thought, just patience and the familiar smile and reassuring nod that he always shared with him. "I think you should do it Sam, I don't see the harm… and I agree. Maybe help is the best option"

"I said ok, god" Sam couldn't hold back the snappish anger in his voice, betray was definitely what he was feeling. The same if's and why's raced through his mind as he shut his mouth and stared down at his cup.

_If I stayed with dad where would I be now._

_Why did I leave? Really._

The rest of the afternoon passed slowly, the hints of unease spreading through the group. Sam's temper and obvious anger made everyone sit on edge. Tiptoeing around conversation topics scared to set him off, Sam knew what they were doing. It angered him more, he was not crazy. He wasn't something he hunted that you need to be careful around. He was normal. He was sane. He… was late for class.

_Shit!_

With a rushed goodbye and awkward goodbyes he hurried out the door, not daring to even take the chance of glancing back at the people he had run away from.

*.*.*.*

Now:

The papers were being sold by the dozen; news stations open the floodgates to let money poor in. Every week there would be a new headline, all featuring the same infamous face, the same shit eating grin that everyone had become accustomed to love and to absolutely despise. Sam Winchester, the face behind the most notorious killer. The face seemed too young, too beautiful to ever vomit any of those sins. It had been over two years since the first blood was spilt by his hands, the brutality yet elegance of the murders was what captured everyone's attention. The first murder had been messy; blood painted the walls and coated the flood like a second coating of paint. The victim's body had been hacked apart by an axe, the scene itself looked angry. Like a child had thrown a tantrum. Multiple stab wounds were littered across the torso, over 20 circling the same stop like he had stood over the body striking over and over. Yet this wasn't what captured everyone's attention. Once the body had been turned over the entire back had become a canvas, being home to a series of small carefully placed slashes and cuts all coming together form a masterpiece. The words had been carved into him, nobody knew if it was a message or a reminder; if it was an avenging angel. But everyone knew the story, the words that would be remembered for eternity.

_For many shall come in my name, saying, I am [Christ]; and shall deceive many._

It wasn't until it was too late before his identity had been found, some were saying it was on purpose but the single strand of hair left on one of the bodies before the first massacre had the appearance of a small blessing but ended up being the disguise to a curse. When the police arrived at the house the screaming began, blood splattered against the windows and screams echoed the hall. He stood in front of the window, a hostage in hand, making the police watch as he dragged the knife along her throat, letting her life solely drain from her. No one knew to this day how he managed to escape but he did, only leaving behind a single message.

_Now it's time for me to be hunted. _

After that incident the kill count just kept rising leaving the police absolutely baffled and clueless. Each day panic and terror rose, soaring above everyone's heads as the hysteria set it. Each kill was a work of art and everyone knew what message the artist's work was trying to get across; absolute fear.

*.*.*.*

After over two months without a single kill under his name, faces and names littered the newspaper. _The artist strikes again. _This was the once investigation that police hated, the way the bodies were so horrifically displayed, whether they were hung up or impaled. There was always one similarity, the words and symbols that littered the body and the hacked apart pieces of flesh and bone. The most recent kill had lest the police horrified, three victims had been strung up by a wire; one slowly by the neck to the head was slowly being separated from the body, the spinal cord had been severed and the skin was slowly being torn apart on its own, remainder of skin and flesh straining and slowly coming apart from the weight, accelerating the process of decapitation. Another was nailed to the wall, their eyes had been scooped out of their sockets and their flesh hurriedly and messily removed from the body. The third was still alive once the police got there, he was hanging upside down by one foot, his stomach had been cut open and blood was oozing from the wound onto the ground.

Intestines and other organs you couldn't really make out littered the ground, the smell of three or four day old flesh and dried blood assaulted the noses of the investigators. No one knew how to stop him; the kills just kept coming, seemingly worse and worse each time. But it was only a matter of time before he would get caught, before he would get bored being on the run. Isn't that what happens. Sam Winchester needs to be caught, no matter how and with whatever means necessary. It was just a matter of knowing where he was and where he will strike next


End file.
